


Blue Box Christmas

by Dawnwind



Category: Doctor Who, The Professionals
Genre: Christmas Special, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 14:51:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16997073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Bodie is preparing to embark on a new life when his past swoops him into the TARDIS and takes him to the North Pole.





	Blue Box Christmas

Blue Box Christmas

_“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you, I’ll be so blue thinking about you…”_

The noise invaded his dream, dredging up images of impossible landscapes and frightening creatures. He jerked awake, the word “no!” coming out even before he was totally aware.

NO. Couldn’t be, not now—not on this, of all weeks. 

He opened his eyes, shoving the duvet away. There was no mistaking the rumbling, cranking groan of the machine. He’d heard it so many times, but that had been in the past, where it belonged.

A large blue Police box materialised in the corner of his bedroom, jammed between the end of the bed and his dresser. Within seconds, a man emerged, all wild grey hair, and dressed completely in black.

“Will, I need you!” the man said dramatically in a thick Scottish accent.

“No, not again,” William Bodie said firmly. He would not be dragged willy-nilly out in the middle of a December night to right some wrong or solve the plight of some distant civilisation. 

“What does that mean?” The older man paused. He was half in and half out of the Police box, lit from behind which cast his face in shadow, only his hawk-like profile visible. 

“I told you last time.” Bodie tried to be patient but this was really too much! “I’ve…moved on. I have a life of my own now, a new career.”

“Yes, I know.” He came all the way into the room, peering about, but it was dark.

Because Bodie had been sleeping, and damned if he was going to turn on the light because the insatiably curious man was checking out his flat. 

“Quite dark in here,” he chided, hands on his hips.

“Going on three a.m..” Bodie pointed at the bedside clock. With any luck, the man would take off once again, and Bodie could get four more hours of sleep.

“So it is!” he agreed with a nod. 

Bodie sighed. There was no getting rid of him. “Doctor,” he said through clenched teeth. “What is it you want?”

“Your expertise, of course!” The Doctor finally took the initiative and flipped on the light from the wall switch. “I’ve looked in on you here and there—you were in the Royal Army after all that fash in Africa, and now moving on to CI5.”

“How would you bloody know that?” Bodie erupted, blinking in the sudden brightness. “You can’t blunder in here, calling me back to the old life…” What a life it had been action: adventure, intrigue, and even a bit of romance. Everything a teenage boy could want. From the age of 14 until his 17th year, he’d travelled through time and space with the Doctor. Occasionally, his mother had come along for the ride, until she got sick.

All the Doctor’s vast knowledge and superior abilities hadn’t been able to save her from cancer. Bodie saw the older man gazing at a framed photo on the wall of the three of them: himself, his mother, and the Doctor standing in front of the blue TARDIS.

It was all Bodie could do not to run through the door of the Police box and hide there as he’d done after Gertrude Bodie had died. What the hell was he thinking? Joining the squad at CI5 would provide all the excitement, intrigue, and violence he could ever ask for, and he’d be paid. 

Still—

Bodie looked over at the man he thought of as a father, taking in the small changes since he’d last seen him, twelve years earlier. That was twelve Earth years—who knows how many years for the Doctor after spending time on dozens of different planets and in multiple time periods. His hair, always grey since Bodie had met him, was longer and wilder. He’d once dressed in vaguely Victorian garb: a white shirt, a burgundy smoking jacket, and waistcoat. Now, he looked like some sort of rock star in a long black coat with a red lining worn over a sparkly jumper and a hooded track jacket. He had on tight black jeans and heavy soled black Doc Martens. It was as if he’d grown somewhat younger in the intervening years.

“Will, there’s no time for lengthy explanations—“ The Doctor gestured at the open door of the TARDIS. 

“Just Bodie now,” he interrupted, grabbing the trousers and blue button-down shirt he’d cast aside when he got into bed. “Haven’t been called Will—“ In twelve years. Since the day he stepped out of the TARDIS in 1964, to join the army. 

The Doctor stared at him silently, the expression in his eyes almost unreadable. He’d never been a demonstrative person, certainly not one for hugs or outward signs of affection, but Bodie felt something loosen inside. The Doctor was a part of the life he’d tried to dismiss, because the memories brought back his mother, and that had hurt—a great deal. He was an adult now and accepting his own past would help him chart his future. 

“Aye,” The Doctor said quietly. “You’ve grown. It’s as if no time has passed for me, yet for you it’s been…?”

Bodie finished buttoning his shirt with a nod. The Doctor wasn’t being coy, he truly didn’t always fathom the date. Time travel made it both easier and far more difficult to mark the passage of years. “I’m twenty nine,” he answered, shrugging on a sports jacket. “More’n a decade.”

“All the more reason to move quickly,” The Doctor said decisively. “You still believe in Santa Claus, don’t you?”

~~**~~

Although they’d travelled over a thousand miles, the journey took only minutes. Bodie pushed open the door of the TARDIS, peering out into a winter wonderland. A red and white post a short distance away, shaped like a large peppermint stick, bore a sign pointing to the right with the words _North Pole._

And this wasn’t the location Peary had explored in 1909. This was the mythical North Pole, home of Santa Claus and his industrious toy making elves. 

Light snow was falling from a cloudy sky when The Doctor walked up, thrusting a padded jacket at him. 

“Gets cold here,” he Doctor reminded. He pointed towards a cluster of red and white buildings. “There’s Santa’s home and his toy factory.”

“You’ve been here before?” Bodie asked, donning the jacket before heading in that direction.

“Many’s the time,” the Doctor replied. “We’re old friends. Which is why I knew there was a problem when I saw our destination. He never hails me—he’s got his own security team.”

“Santa Claus has security?” Bodie asked, his breath coming out in a white puff that hung in the air for a second before dissipating. “I thought there were just elves and reindeer.” When he’d considered the matter at all, which hadn’t been since he was four or five.

“Will—erm, Bodie, this is a year round, global operation with thousands of employees. He maintains the most up to date tech,” The Doctor said, their footsteps crunching in the snow. “Probably more so than your CI5 mates. Computers, mobile phones, drones—all the mod cons.”

“Mobile phones?” Bodie echoed. He was about to ask more questions when he saw several people emerge from the largest building, looking expectantly at him and The Doctor.

All the buildings were built of red brick with dollops of white mortar showing between each brick like frosting on a cake. The roofs were peaked and festooned with all manner of gingerbread decorative accents and sparkling fairy lights. A chimney on the top spouted a plume of white smoke. The scent of hot cocoa and chocolate biscuits permeated the air.

“Doctor!” A slender man with a puff of curly hair and bright green eyes hurried up, holding out his hands. “So glad you are here, I didn’t know who else to call.”

He certainly didn’t look like an elf, in Bodie’s estimation. He was dressed in a green jumper under a red anorak, and skintight blue jeans. The other two men--elves?-- were more stereotypical: short-statured, wearing green tunics with red tights, and had large pointed ears poking up on either side of their green and red caps. Although he’d never pondered the idea previously, it stood to reason that Santa—and his wife?—were not the only two humans at the North Pole. 

Bodie’s investigative brain questioned even that. Was Santa Claus human? He looked like half the older men in England—big gut, white hair, and pink cheeks, but perhaps, like the Doctor, he wasn’t human? If not, what was he? The famous poem by Clement Moore described him as a “jolly old elf.” So elves were not all three feet tall then, with pointy ears?

“Doyle!” The Doctor exclaimed, shaking the curly haired man’s hand. “Came as soon as I could, and brought reinforcements. This is Bodie, with CI5.”

“Doctor, I’ve not yet—“ Bodie protested.

“I’m CI Five myself.” Doyle nodded his greeting. “Come inside. Annalise will have cocoa ready, and I can brief you on the situation.”

“CI Five?” Bodie repeated, feeling like he was a step behind everyone else. Particularly when Doyle and the Doctor preceded him into the toyshop. The other elves hurried inside, back to their tasks.

“Christmas Investigations, Fifth generation,” Doyle answered with a grin that speared something deep in Bodie’s being.

The man was gorgeous. He didn’t possess square jawed cinema star looks, not with that fae, otherworldly air about him. On closer inspection, Doyle wasn’t entirely human looking—his face misaligned, his ears slightly elongated, the upper half covered by curly hair. 

“It’s an inherited position,” The Doctor said, surveying the scene. 

Bodie looked around in astonishment. Although it had been in the middle of the night in London, the place was buzzing with activity. This close to Christmas, the toy shop was in high gear. All stations were manned—or elved—by teams of four to six workers making toys. There was a group screwing together the gears on bicycles. Another assessed the mechanics of a walking doll, right beside a crew constructing building blocks, while others tested the speed of miniature race cars.

“Where’s the old man himself?” The Doctor asked, taking a peppermint from a small bowl on a shelf overflowing with every sort of confection that might be found in a Christmas stocking.

“That’s the problem.” Doyle led them from the toy shop into a cosy house. 

It was just as every picture book and cartoon had ever portrayed Santa Claus’ domicile. Comfy, stuffed chairs, with antimacassars on the backs, a decorated Christmas tree in the corner, and a grandmotherly sort bearing a tray of hot cocoa and biscuits for their tea.

“He’s in his bed, still,” she said to Doyle’s unasked question, glancing towards a closed door. Her eyes glistened with tears behind wire-rimmed glasses. “He’s there, but…doesn’t seem to be in his body at all.”

“This is bad,” The Doctor proclaimed gravely. “Annalise, may I--?”

“Of course.” She gave him a brave smile. “It’s why you’ve come all this way.” 

“Bodie.” The Doctor beckoned Bodie to accompany him into the bedroom. Doyle followed on their heels. 

Santa Claus lay in a four poster bed under a bright counterpane patterned with holly berries and leaves. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing slowly, but showed no other signs of life.

Doyle sighed with a grim expression, touching the man’s chubby pink hand. “He’s been like this for the last two days. We haven’t a clue what’s happened.”

The Doctor stalked the perimeter of the room, gazing curiously at Santa’s untouched cup of cocoa on the bedside locker, his reading material, his shiny boots and red velvet suit hanging predominantly at the front of a large mahogany wardrobe. He extracted a pen shaped object from his pocket and clicked one end. It emitted a bluish glow. Scanning the sonic screwdriver up and down Santa’s body, he muttered to himself with a shake of his head. “Curious indeed.”

“What is it, Doctor?” Bodie’d fallen back into old patterns immediately. Wait until the Doctor analysed the situation and then ask questions. Once they’d determined the root cause of the problem, they could fix whatever was wrong. 

Usually successfully.

But not always. Bodie could recall occasions when their solution had gone pear shaped quite quickly. 

Doyle seemed to have the same instincts to let the Doctor get on with his investigations before chiming in. He leaned against a dresser topped by a small decorated tree. All the baubles were red and green gem stones. 

“Doyle, do you know any Scabeaux?” he asked, bushy white eyebrows raised.

“What are they when they’re at home?” Doyle inquired.

“Large rodents.” The Doctor flipped up the edge of Santa’s bed skirt with one booted foot to look underneath. Not a dust kitty in sight. “Like huge mice.”

“The kitchen staff?” Doyle replied with a slight chuckle. 

“Santa has mice in his kitchen?” Bodie was horrified. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Doyle retorted. “Grand at making biscuits. Didn’t know they were collectively Scabeaux. We call them by their given names—Gus, Jacques, Remy, and the like.”

“French mice?” Bodie mused.

“Scabeaux aren’t bad creatures, but they do try to take over…” The Doctor hastened out of Santa’s bed chamber without a backward glance at the old fellow. “Annalise!” he called urgently.

“What is it?” 

Mrs Claus popped around a corner so quickly she’d clearly been eavesdropping, something Bodie would never have suspected of the kindly woman. Wasn’t _she_ supposed to be baking the Christmas treats?

The Doctor smiled at her, all teeth, and not a very convincing one if he was trying to be sincere. “Heard you’ve hired on kitchen helpers.” He picked up a mug of cocoa, took a sip and gestured to Bodie and Doyle to follow suit with the other mugs on the tray.

The chocolatey beverage was still hot despite the fact that the mugs had been sitting out for several minutes. Bodie helped himself to two gingerbread cookies, crunching happily. Not often he got such a lovely…what did this count as, his breakfast or late afternoon tea? Time travel was so confusing.

“True.” Mrs Claus nodded so vigorously that the ruffled white cap on her head wobbled like a live thing. “There are so many things to bake, not to mention regular meals for our crew.” She poked a finger at Doyle’s ribs. “Some people could use fattening up. So when Gus and his…” She giggled gaily, dimples deepening in both cheeks, “Can’t call them men, can I? Gus and his squad arrived, ready with sugar and flour, how could I resist?”

“Did they make these?” Bodie froze, scrutinising the last of the biscuit in his hand. Would he drop unconscious like Santa now?

“They’ve been ever so helpful,” Mrs Claus gushed. “Making piles of biscuits, _petit gateaux_ , cookies, _keks_ , whatever you’d call them.” 

“ _Smakager_ ,” Doyle put in. “Danish,” he said in an aside to Bodie.

“And you’ve eaten them?” The Doctor asked, directing the sonic screwdriver at the plate of gingerbread men, star shaped biscuits, and sugar dusted Russian Tea cakes for an ingredient read-out.

“Of course, I have.” She put both hands on her well padded hips, glaring at him. “What’s this about, Doctor? I wouldn’t have an inferior product produced in my kitchen. Haven’t done in hundreds of years.”

“Then that’s not how they did it,” he mused, drinking down the rest of the cocoa.

“Wait a mo.” Bodie finally cottoned onto The Doctor’s line of thinking. “These Skabeaux, biscuit making rats…”

“Mice,” Doyle corrected with a mischievous grin.

Bodie fell in love in that single moment. Why, he couldn’t say, but an amazing happiness permeated his body that had nothing to do with the tasty biscuits he’d just consumed. 

“Rodents.” He would be the bigger man and not quibble over genus identification. “Doctor, you think they’ve stolen Father’s Christmas’ brain?”

“Gracious me!” Mrs Claus dropped into a comfy chair as if she’d been pole-axed, her normally pink cheeks pale as driven snow. 

“Not quite sure that’s what they’ve done,” The Doctor answered thoughtfully, “And I strongly suspect that they didn’t intend to turn a beloved symbol of the Christmas holidays into a…” he glanced over at Annalise who was gobbling up Russian Tea cakes as if they were in some way restorative, “vegetable,” he said in a gentle voice.

“Then what?” Doyle demanded angrily. “Let’s round up the lot of them, interrogate ‘em until they spill how it was done, and then toss them out on their tiny pink ears.”  
He pulled a sleek, sophisticated pistol out of the pocket of his anorak.

“Doyle!” Mrs Claus cried. “I’ve said no guns in the house.” She gulped down her cocoa in one swallow.

Bodie was immediately interested. He’d never seen such a pistol before. “Is that a Webley or a Glock?” he asked, more than a bit envious.

“My own design, mate.” Doyle placed the gun in Bodie’s hand. “And fashioned by elves. Mind the safety.”

“It’s magnificent.” Bodie stroked the barrel, noting the perfect balance, the grip that somehow fit his hand like a glove, although it had been made for Doyle, and the expert craftsmanship. “Everything I’ve dreamed of in a handgun.”

“Yeah.” Doyle smirked, taking a similar weapon out of his left pocket. “It’s yours. What you’ve asked Santa for every year even while pretending you’re an adult and don’t actually believe.”

Bodie gawped at Doyle. How could he possibly know something Bodie had never put into words? He’d tucked his memories of the Doctor away in that place where childhood was kept, in the recesses of his brain, along with Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. Yet, on Christmas Eve, he’d always laughed at himself and left a sock hanging half out of his drawer. Just in case. And he’d dreamed of such a pistol for years.

“We’ll have none of that!” The Doctor commanded. “Put those away.” He waved his hand in the air as if he could make the weapons vanish completely. “There are better ways to reason with other species.” He nodded decisively when both Bodie and Doyle pocketed their guns. “Come along, into the kitchen.”

The kitchen dwarfed the rest of the house. A bit like the TARDIS, Bodie thought, which looked like a narrow, old style police box on the outside and had endless room inside. The Claus kitchen contained countertops that went on for nearly a mile, with every sort of biscuit, cake, pie, and candy confection being prepared. The smell was heavenly, if somewhat overwhelming, causing immediate cravings for sweets. Bodie wanted to grab a sample of everything on offer. There were dozens of cookers, ovens, and refrigerators taking up nearly every inch of wall space that wasn’t covered by shelves groaning with necessary ingredients.

While a majority of the kitchen staff were elves--petite women and men wearing white caps like Mrs Claus’, and aprons over their green tunics--several tables were swarming with mouse-like creatures. Not at all similar to Disney’s Mickey with his enormous round black ears. These beings stood on their hind legs and wore tiny white aprons, their pink noses twitching with excitement as they poured chocolate and sugar into a large bowl. 

When all the elements of whatever they were making had been added, a mouse mounted the edge of the bowl to climb onto the mixer, riding it like a bicycle around and around in the batter.

“Doesn’t the poem say “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse?” Bodie asked rhetorically.

Doyle glanced at him with a bemused expression. The Doctor guffawed.

“That was on the night before Christmas, which this is not,” he said, watching the Skabeaux perform their tasks. “They also do not seem at all concerned that we are here. Doyle, has their behaviour changed in any way since Santa’s untimely…departure?”

“Not at all. They’re grand with a _Bouche de Noel,_ ” Doyle said, pointing to a finished Christmas Log cake on a separate table. “Never had such quality cakes before.”

“Then however they did the deed…” The Doctor began.

“They don’t consider what they did was wrong,” Bodie finished.

“Remy, Gus?” Doyle called, approaching their work station. “This is the Doctor, and Bodie.”

“Oooo!” A bright eyed Scabeaux pawed the air with what was possibly a mousey smile, bobbing his head in greeting. “You would like a pastry?”

Bodie nearly said, ‘yes, _please,’_ then remembered that he was supposed to be a trained investigator, not some wide eyed six year old in Santa’s bakery. “Just ate,” he said gruffly. This was not, after all, his first rodeo as they said in the States. He’d not met a Scabeaux, but had conversed one on one with Cybermen, Atlantans, and Venusians, just to name a few.

“Have you seen the Big Man of late?” The Doctor asked with surprising gentleness.

A Scabeaux wearing wee spectacles on his long nose gasped, and the one riding the mixer squealed, jumping off. Batter splashed onto the gleaming counter, and several elf bakers turned to discover what the commotion was all about.

“Nothing to see here,” Doyle soothed, shooing them back to their stations. “VIPs touring the kitchen.”

The elves peered at The Doctor, a few obviously recognising him, and went back to their preparations.

Two Scabeaux grabbed tea towels to wipe up the splatter, grumbling in high pitched squeaks.

“What have you heard?” The Doctor asked, his voice lowered to talk to the tiny creatures now all gathered in a huddle around the bowl.

“The Big Man, he is ill?” The one wearing spectacles chewed on a tiny mouse nail, or perhaps it was a miniature claw. “Not ‘imself.”

They did sound French somehow. Bodie frowned. “Exactly. We wondered…”

“I cannot withstand the stress!” The Scabeaux who’d been riding the mixer broke down sobbing. He grabbed a tea towel with a border of red rickrack to wipe his eyes and got chocolate on his fur.

“Jacques?” Doyle touched the top of his fuzzy head.

Jacques nearly pitched off the counter in terror. “He did not mean to…” He shuddered, waving the towel frantically.

“I am Gus,” the taller one said, standing up as straight as a Scabeaux could stand. Which was about one foot, give or take an inch. “Our clan mate, Pascal, he…” Gus looked at his brothers and sisters for support.

“I am Marie.” A diminutive female stepped forward. She had two sets of breasts on her belly, covered by the apron, and wider eyes than the males. “Pascal is my…” She frowned, joining her paws together.

“Husband?” Bodie put in.

“Mate,” Doyle guessed.

“Companion,” The Doctor said.

Marie nodded, satisfied, her whiskers twitching. “We be a pair bond. He desires to bring your Christmas, the joy, the beauty and giving, to our world.”

“How did he take Santa’s brain?” The Doctor inquired.

“His mental transporter—it transfers thoughts and dreams into a…” She looked helplessly at Jacques, Gus and Remy. They looked terrified, the entire Skabeaux crew backing away from her as if physical distance could reduce their involvement.

“I think he overdid it a wee bit.” The Doctor tapped his mouth. “Where is Pascal?” 

“Our quarters,” she said with a shake of her head. Her ruffled cap, so like Annalise’s, waggled between her ears. “You are too large. Will not fit in.”

“Ah.” He considered this. “Will—“

“Bodie.” Bodie smirked at the older man’s gimlet stare. 

“Bodie,” he conceded. “Do you recall using the size disrupter on the TARDIS that time?” 

“With those giant Warflarders!” Bodie cried. Again, the elves in every corner of the room turned to see what had disturbed their baking routines. He glanced at Doyle, wishing he had the time to gaze at the man—possibly elf—all afternoon.

“We’ll be gone in a trifle.” Doyle waved the elves back to their holiday cooking. “I want to hear about this size disrupter,” he said excitedly. “We’d have dozens of uses for such a thing.”

“I could easily see applications for toy manufacture, now that you mention it,” The Doctor answered. “But first, let’s return Santa’s mental capacities.” He bent down to Marie, beckoning the other Skabeaux forward. “I promise, by the power invested in me by the High Council of Gallifrey, the Universal Court of the Galactic Empire, and the Beatles Fan Club—“

Bodie snickered, turning away to pull a face at Doyle. He rolled his eyes, air strumming a guitar.

“That no harm will come to Pascal.” He held up what was clearly the Boy Scouts’ three fingered salute. “Or my name isn’t The Doctor.”

“Merci.” Marie bowed her head solemnly. “Our home is there.” She pointed a sharp clawed paw at a small door at the base of the wainscoting.

Exactly as one might see in a Tom and Jerry cartoon, Bodie mused. A tiny door, complete with a knob and teeny door knocker.

“We’ll be ready to visit in about a half hour,” The Doctor said decisively. “Will, Doyle, to the TARDIS.”

~~**~

Bodie had expected to feel somehow different when the size disrupter shrunk them down. In truth, he was always a bit wary with any TARDIS operation—there were plenty of occasions when the machine malfunctioned or took them somewhere completely unintended. But, except for a brief shudder that caused the floor to ripple like a wave coming onto the sand, there was nothing.

Doyle watching The Doctor manipulate levers and push buttons, looked down at his feet suspiciously. “Are we smaller, then?”

“Than you were before?” Bodie teased, straightening so his slight height advantage on Doyle was emphasized.

“Ought to go on the stage with that comedy routine,” Doyle deadpanned.

“I’ve set the disrupter to mouse height,” The Doctor explained, shoving down one last lever. “With any luck, we should stay this size for about an hour. Time’s wasting, let’s be on our bikes.”

“With any luck?” Doyle repeated, staring at Bodie.

Bodie impulsively grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the TARDIS with the Doctor right behind.

Doyle grinned, his green eyes glowing.

A phalanx of Skabeaux were clustered around the small red door. Bodie found himself at eye-level with Jacques, Gus, and Remy. Marie and some of the others were slightly shorter. He had a reckless yen to reach out and pet their soft grey fur.

“Welcome,” Jacques said formally. “We have not had visitors in all the time we have been.” He produced an old fashioned key to let them in. 

“We’re honoured then,” The Doctor said gravely. “However, we’re on a schedule and the train’s due to leave the station forthwith. It’s Christmas in two days.” 

“Santa Claus has many, many houses to visit,” Doyle added.

The interior of the Skabeaux home was vast, stretching farther than the eye could see. There were small groupings of furniture here and there. By far the largest area was taken up by an array of advanced computer equipment and other scientific   
apparatus. A Skabeaux with bristly whiskers shaped into a moustache and beard was bent over his keyboard, typing furiously. He didn’t seem to notice the group of beings approaching.

“Pascal!” Marie called out nervously. “I have someone to meet you.”

“I am so very busy,” he muttered, tapping out another code.

Bodie had never seen such computers before. There were at least three, all much smaller and lighter weight than those he’d glimpsed on his initial visit to CI5.   
An astonishing idea came to him. “Doyle, what year is this?”

“2018,” Doyle said promptly. “Why?”

Bloody hell. Not only was he at the North Pole with The Doctor and shrunk to the size of a mouse, but it was 40 years into his future. “I should be older,” he said lamely.

Due to his shock, he didn’t quite take in what The Doctor said to Pascal. When he paid attention again, The Doctor was seated at the computer terminal, flexing his fingers. He played the keyboard with the ability of a virtuoso pianist, concluding with a final tap that Bodie heard as a long, quivering note on a guitar string.

All the Skabeaux cried out, covering their upright ears with their paws. 

Doyle laughed, strumming his air guitar again. “A bit like that old group Queen.”

“ _Bohemian Rhapsody_ ,” Bodie put in. Although, in his era, the song had recently been released.

“Freddie Mercury had his problems,” The Doctor said, dusting his hands as if he’d cleaned up a dirty job. “Brilliant musician. I was able to sit in on a recording session once or twice in the late… “ He frowned, waggling a hand. “In the late seventies, not sure off the top of my head whether that was before or after your time, Will…”

“Tell us on the way to London,” Bodie said, glancing at his watch. “Did you restore Santa’s brain?”

Pascal peered at his monitor, poking at a few keys. “It no longer registers here.” He clasped his paws in a prayer position. “I mean no harm. Only wanted to share the joy, the beauty of Christmas with my tribe.”

“And we will,” Jacques said confidently. “We know the baking, the tree decoration, the traditions…”

“We will celebrate Christmas in Skabeaux!” Remy proclaimed. The other Skabeaux cheered, dancing around with joy.

~~**~~

When The Doctor, Bodie and Doyle walked into the house, Santa Claus laughed out loud, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly. He was ensconced in his comfy chair, sipping a cup of hot cocoa with no signs of damage. Annalise hovered at his side, tucking a red woollen rug around his knees.

Which made Bodie hungry. Time travel was so disorienting. Who knew when to eat. He selected two more biscuits, and of all things, a sausage roll, stuffing it into his mouth with gusto.

“Doctor, it is wonderful to see you!” Santa bellowed. 

“He doesn’t remember being gone,” Annalise said in a soft voice. 

“As long as there’s no lasting effects, nothing will change,” The Doctor explained carefully. “Santa, it’s been too long. Glad to see you in such fine fettle.”

“Feel remarkably rested for this late in December.” Santa smiled, his luxurious white beard nearly hiding his lips and completely covering the top of his red striped pyjama shirt. “Usually, I’m bustling around, absolutely sleep deprived.”

Doyle watched Bodie gobble down two more sausage rolls and as many biscuits. “Don’t know how you can eat like that and stay so fit.”

“I’ll have you know I am a growing lad.” Bodie snickered, patting his flat abs. In truth, he had to work out regularly. Did Doyle work out? And could they do it together? Bodie ate another sausage roll, admiring Doyle’s jeans clad arse.

“Doyle!” Santa called out urgently. “I’ve missed prime packing time. Annalise said it’s the 23rd—where has the time gone? How will we get it all accomplished by tomorrow night?”

“No worries, Santa.” Doyle patted his arm. “We all know our jobs. You’ve trained us well. My sister Maureen has been helping me to coordinate operations. She’s jonesing for a promotion—possibly my position, as if I would give it up.” He glanced up at Bodie as he spoke as if trying to convey some sort of secret message. “Everything is going according to plan. You’ll be in the red velvet suit and flying out on Christmas Eve.”

“I told you not to worry,” Annalise soothed, her smile from ear to ear. “Those wee Skabeaux are marvellous bakers—made such a brilliant _Bouche de Noel…”_

The Doctor cleared his throat noisily. “They’ve left,” he said, “Quite unexpectedly called back to the home planet.”

“Cinnamon and ginger!” Annalise exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “I’ll have to rally the baking staff for the last minute push. Must dash.”

“I’ve orders to fill myself.” Santa pulled out a heavy old fashioned pocket watch, consulting the time.

Bodie stared at the beautiful piece, turning to the Doctor in shock. “That looks just like…”

“Yes.” He murmured, giving Bodie a gimlet eye before sliding on a pair of dark Ray Bans. “We’d best be going, as well.”

Bodie nearly choked on his last gingerbread. Go home, to London? On December 23rd and spend Christmas Eve at some pub when he could be here, with…Doyle.

Exactly at that moment, Doyle turned toward him, a strange expression on his beautiful face. Almost like longing. Only it couldn’t be, could it? They’d known each other, what? Two or three hours? How could this be… Bodie searched his innermost feelings with a sense of alarm. True love. 

How could they make this work? Was it even possible? They not only lived on different continents but in different decades. 

He brushed a hand against Doyle’s flank for a brief second. “I’ve got to speak with ‘im. Give us just a mo, yeah?”

Doyle grinned, all chipped tooth and tipped eyes. “I’ll go out to the stables, have a word with the reindeer wranglers. Meet me there.”

Bodie watched him walk out, that marvellous arse stretching and bunching with each step. Could he stay at the North Pole for the rest of his life? Not feasible. He had a job interview with CI5 in…hopefully, the TARDIS would take them back to the correct time and place before his meeting with Cowley, or he’d be gubbins at Christmas.

What about Doyle? His was apparently an inherited position. Was there a way for him to live in London? Would he want to?

The Doctor was standing near a candy cane fence. Despite the dark glasses obscuring his eyes, Bodie detected a wistfulness. On the slope opposite, several elves were testing the smooth gliding properties of a variety of sleds and toboggans. From their giggling whoops, it was clear they enjoyed their work. Did Doyle love his job that much?

Bodie had never needed to stay in one place for long—nothing had ever held him with such reverence. He wasn’t sure if he’d never been satisfied before, or possibly, that his mother’s death and his time with The Doctor had changed him physically. Now, his whole being felt different. He had a connection to Doyle, deep-- and astonishingly—abiding, that he wanted to hold fast for the rest of his life.

“Doctor,” Bodie said. “You didn’t need me for this…case.”

“You were of great help,” The Doctor blustered, drawing himself up straight. “I always need a companion.”

That was it, then. He missed someone. Missed someone Bodie would never know, with great longing. If he asked, would he receive a real answer or some standard Doctor obfuscation?

“Did you drag me along to meet Doyle?” Bodie blurted before he could stop himself.

The Doctor chuckled, deep and sardonic. “Will, are you accusing me of matchmaking? Surely not.” The Scottish accent gave his reply a hint of reproach. He strode out the gate to a path worn down by multiple feet through the thick snow. 

“I think you’d like everyone to have their special companion,” Bodie guessed, following. 

He turned back, lowering the glasses so that Bodie could see the great sadness in his blue-green eyes. Not at all the same as Doyle’s colour, but strange that they shared the unusual shade. “Human beings were meant to mate,” he said gruffly. 

“But you’re from Gallifrey, therefore not a human?” Bodie finished, the snow crunching under his shoes with every step. “I know for a fact that you’ve been married.”

“A River that has flowed past,” The Doctor said obliquely, stomping toward the TARDIS standing on a hill in the distance.

That tactic hadn’t gone so well. How to broach the subject and get a helpful reply? “You miss someone?” Bodie asked. 

“Ever had soufflé, Will?” he asked, evading the question per usual. “The TARDIS has seen so many come through, she’s bound to be…lonely on occasion. I find the oddest things when sorting through cupboards searching for something else. Jamie’s extra kilt. One of Leyla’s knives. Ace’s explosives…” he trailed off, suddenly old and tired despite the rock star glamour. “Saw your mother’s favourite mug for tea recently. Can’t recall where I left it.”

“I bought her Best Mom in the Universe at that gift shop on Ultima Prime!” Bodie could picture the pink mug with glittery gold writing on the side as if he were holding it in his hands. See her sitting in the TARDIS’s eclectic kitchen drinking tea and eating a Swiss Roll. God knew where they’d obtained a Swiss roll in the middle of space. “You gave me a good life, Doctor.”

“Been a very long time, hasn’t it, Will?” The Doctor turned to him, one hand on the door of the TARDIS. “You should be with someone.”

“I should be with Doyle,” Bodie said with ultimate certainty. There was no doubt, no fear—only whether Doyle would accompany him into a different life. His heart swelled at the idea, as if two beat inside his chest instead of one. He couldn’t wait to put his hand in Doyle’s, his lips on Doyle’s mouth.

“Wager he’s not been to London, particularly not in 1976.” The Doctor pushed open his door, to get out of the snowflakes beginning to swirl and dance in the air. “Invite him over. What’s the old expression? To see your etchings?”

“Doctor!” Bodie didn’t know whether to be shocked or highly amused. Not only had the man he considered a father introduced him to a man as a potential partner, he was apparently encouraging sex. “You’ve changed!”

“I do so, on a regular basis.” The Doctor nodded, tucking the sunglasses into the neckline of his jumper. “You should have met me when I was…younger.” He made a shooing gesture. “If you’ve a mind to invite Doyle, get on with it. Don’t you have an interview in the morning?”

“You can get me there on time?” Bodie countered, laughing.

“I am a Time Lord,” The Doctor rankled. “Go, collect your friend, before I change my mind.”

~~**~~

Doyle was bent over the chassis of a classic Harley Davidson motorcycle. There weren’t any candy striped, North Pole adornments on the bike—except for Doyle’s luscious arse, that is. It gleamed black and gold in the lantern light of the reindeer barn. 

Eight reindeer—not exactly tiny by Bodie’s estimation, with their massive racks of antlers—were gathered around him as if admiring the alternate means of transportation. 

“Doyle,” Bodie said, suddenly at a loss. What did he say? In theory, asking Doyle to stay with him in London had seemed perfect. Now he was filled with doubt. They’d only met, and were from two entirely different worlds. How could he ask Doyle to abandon all he knew for London, England 40 years in the past? Did that make Doyle older? Did that matter? “Where have you been all my life?”

The raucous laugh that erupted calmed his last fears. “Right here, me old china.” Doyle poked a finger at him teasingly. “Waiting, I think.” He stood facing Bodie, arms open, but not touching. “Santa told me years ago someone would come, looking for me. To always be ready.”

Bodie put both hands on those slim hips, touching him finally, curving his fingers onto Doyle’s rounded arse cheeks. “You knew?”

“S’why I had your pressie, isn’t it?” Doyle cocked his head, smiling. 

“Then I didn’t give you a proper thank you,” Bodie declared, giddiness overtaking all of his usual common sense. “How’s this work—do we kiss or…”

“I think we ought to.” Doyle leaned into him, folding his arms around Bodie’s waist to bring him in close.

The kiss was magic, filled with Swiss rolls, marzipan, Christmas carols, and long winter nights. It was the best gift he’d ever received and should have had glittery gold letters wrapped around them both proclaiming “best kiss in the universe.”

They hadn’t come up for air when the straw in the mangers began to dance in an unexpected, in-barn windstorm, a wheezing groaning sound filling the air. The reindeer snorted warily, crowding back as the TARDIS solidified against one wall of the barn.

“Will!” The Doctor emerged, his hair still dusted with the snow from up on the hill. “Got a distress call from Raxacoricofallapatorius.” The multisyllabic word flowed off his tongue as if he’d said it a million times. 

_Could be he had._

“Your Mr Cowley said it was urgent. Are you both coming?” he added, impatiently.

Of course they were. 

Bodie took a step, Doyle right beside him, into his future—and his past.

FIN


End file.
